Crammon gave a dinner. Not in his own house; meetings of a certain
character were impossible there, on account of the innocent presence
of the two old maiden ladies, Miss Aglaia and Miss Constantine. The
disillusion would have been too saddening and final to the good ladies,
who were as convinced of the virtue of their lord and protector as they
were of the emperor’s majesty.
In former years it had indeed sometimes seemed to them that their
adored one did not always tread the paths of entire purity. They had
closed an eye. Now, however, the dignity and intellectual resonance of
his personality forbade any doubt.
Crammon had invited his guests to the private dining-room of a
well-known hotel, in which he was familiar and esteemed. The company
consisted of several young members of the nobility, to whom he was
under social obligations, and, as for ladies, there were three
beauties, entertaining, elegant, and yielding, in the precise degree
which the occasion required. Crammon called them his friends, but in
his treatment of them there was something languid and even vexed. He
gave them clearly to understand that he was only the business manager
of the feast, and that his heart was very far away.
No one, in fact, was present to whom he was not completely indifferent.
Best of all he liked the old pianist with long, grey locks, who
closed his eyes and smiled dreamily whenever he played a melancholy
or languishing piece, just as he had done twenty years ago, when
Crammon was still fired by the dreams and ambitions of youth. He gave
the old man sweets and cigarettes, and sometimes patted his shoulder
affectionately.
The table groaned under its burden of food and wine. Pepper was added
to the champagne to heighten every one’s thirst. There were cherries in
the fruit bowls, and the gentlemen found it amusing to drop the pits
down the semi-exposed bosoms of the ladies. The latter found it easier
and easier, as the evening advanced, to resist the law of gravitation,
and to display their charming shoes and the smooth silks and rustling
laces of their legs in astonishingly horizontal attitudes. The most
agile among them, a popular soubrette, climbed on the grand piano, and,
accompanied by the grey-haired musician, sang the latest hit of the
music halls.
The young men joined in the chorus.
Crammon applauded with just two fingers. “There is a sting in my soul,”
he whispered into the din. He got up and left the room.
In the corridor the head-waiter Ferdinand was leaning alone and
somewhat wearily against the frame of a mirror. A tender intimacy of
two decades bound Crammon to this man, who had never in his life been
indiscreet, in spite of the innumerable secrets he had overheard.
“Bad times, Ferdinand,” Crammon said. “The world is going to the
deuce.”
“One must take things as they are, Herr von Crammon,” that dignified
individual consoled him, and handed him the bill.
Crammon sighed. He gave directions that if his guests inquired after
him, they were to be told that he was indisposed and had gone home.
“There is a sting in my soul,” he said, when he found himself on the
street. He determined to travel again.
He yearned for his friend. It seemed to him that he had had no friend
but that one who had cast him off.
He yearned for Ariel. It seemed to him that he had possessed no woman,
because she had not yielded to him who was his very conception of
genius and beauty.
At the door of his house stood Miss Aglaia. She had heard him coming
and had hastened to meet him. It frightened Crammon, for the hour was
late.
“There is a lady in the drawing-room,” Miss Aglaia whispered. “She
arrived at eight, and has been waiting since then. She besought us so
movingly to let her stay that we had not the heart to refuse. She is a
distinguished lady, and she has a dear face----”
“Did she tell you her name?” Crammon asked, and the thunder-clouds
gathered on his brow.
“No, not exactly----”
“People who enter my dwelling are required to give their names,”
Crammon roared. “Is this a railway station or a public shelter? Go in
and ask her who she is. I shall wait here.”
In a few minutes Miss Aglaia returned and said in a compassionate tone:
“She’s fallen asleep in an armchair. But you can take a peep at her.
I’ve left the door ajar.”
On tip-toes Crammon passed through the hall, and peered into the
well-lit drawing-room. He recognized the sleeper at once. It was Elise
von Einsiedel. She slept with her head leaned back and inclining a
little to one side. Her face was pale, with blue circles under her
eyes, and her left arm hung down limply.
Crammon stood there in his hat and overcoat, and gazed at her with
sombre eyes. “Unhappy child!” he murmured.
He closed the door with all possible precaution. Then he drew Miss
Aglaia toward the door and said: “The presence of a strange lady makes
it unseemly, of course, for me to pass the night here. I shall find a
bed elsewhere. I hope you appreciate my attitude.”
Miss Aglaia was speechless over such purity and sternness. Crammon
continued: “As early as possible in the morning, pack my bags and
bring them to meet me in time to catch the express to Ostende. And let
Constantine come with you, so that I may say good-bye to her as well.
Let the strange lady stay here as long as she desires. Entertain her
courteously and fulfil all her wishes. She has a sorrow, and deserves
kindness. If she asks after me, tell her that urgent affairs require my
presence elsewhere.”
He went out. Sadly, and quite astonished, Miss Aglaia looked after him.
“Good-night, Aglaia,” he called out once more. Then the door closed
behind him.